"How can I dance in a sword?" protested Philip.
"It is de rigueur," said the Marquis.
Philip fingered the jewelled hilt.
"A pretty plaything," he said. "I have never spent so much money on fripperies before."
François arranged the full skirts of his coat about the sword, and Tom slipped rings on to Philip's fingers. A point-edged hat was put into his hand, an enamelled snuff-box, and a handkerchief.
Thomas looked at the Marquis, the Marquis nodded complacently. He led Philip to a long glass.
"Well, my friend?"
But Philip said never a word. He stared and stared again at his reflection. He could not believe that it was himself. He saw a tall, slight figure dressed in a pale blue satin coat, and white small-clothes, flowered waistcoat, and gold-clocked stockings. High red-heeled shoes, diamond-buckled, were on his feet, lace foamed over his hands and at his neck, while a white wig, marvellously curled and powdered, replaced his shorn locks. Unconsciously he drew himself up, tilting his chin a little, and shook out his handkerchief.
"Well!" The Marquis grew impatient. "You have nothing to say?"
Philip turned.